Lion in the Valley - Elizabeth Peters [60]
“On the whole, Amelia,” said Emerson in a reflective voice, “I believe I prefer even the atrocious term Master Criminal to genius of crime.”
“Very well, Emerson, it is of small concern to me. As I was saying, Miss Marshall, we robbed Sethos of his ill-gotten gains, but unfortunately he made good his escape. He is out there somewhere, lurking in the shadows of the underworld and, I do not doubt, burning for revenge. The flowers were a reminder that his unseen eyes are upon us and his unseen hand may at any moment descend.”
Miss Marshall drew a long breath of amazement. “You quite take my breath away, Mrs. Emerson. What a thrilling tale!”
I thanked her, and Emerson growled, “Mrs. Emerson’s rhetorical style, I fear, is influenced by her taste for third-rate romances. You left out all the important details, Amelia. Ramses’ daring rescue—”
“I will elaborate at another time, Emerson. Here we are, at our little camp; I do hope, Miss Marshall, that you will be comfortable.”
Emerson cheered up when he saw that the second, smaller tent had been placed some distance from our own. “Out of hearing range” was, I believe, his precise phrase. I got the girl settled nicely and returned to my spouse, who had already retired. The interior of the tent was quite dark; but when I asked Emerson to relight the lamp, he refused in such terms that I decided not to pursue the subject.
“I cannot see a thing, Emerson,” I said, edging toward the spot where I believed he must be.
“I can’t see you either, but I can hear you jingling,” said Emerson’s voice. A hand closed over the folds of my trousers and drew me down.
“You see?” said Emerson, after a while. “The visual sense is not necessary for the activities I had planned for this evening. One might even argue that it is an interference.”
“Quite right, my dear Emerson. Only, if you don’t mind, I would prefer to remove the net and combs and pins from my hair myself. You have just put your finger in my eye.”
When these and other encumbrances to conjugal fraternization had been removed, Emerson drew me into his strong arms. Not wishing to discourage the sensations of intense affection that had begun to develop, I unobtrusively freed one hand long enough to draw a blanket over us. Once the sun goes down, the desert nights are chilly. Also, I had not closed the flap of the tent. However, I felt sure Miss Marshall had closed hers; Emerson had mentioned at least four times that she must be sure and do so, for fear of the night air.
As I have had occasion to remark earlier in the pages of this journal, I do not share the prudish attitude of some self-appointed guardians of righteousness concerning the relationship of married persons. I rejoice—nay, I glory in—the depth of the regard Emerson and I have for one another. The fact that Emerson is as attracted by my physical characteristics as he is by my character and my spiritual qualities should, in my opinion, be a source of pride rather than embarrassment.
I will therefore state, candidly and without reserve, that I sensed a subtle change in his behavior that night. It was more tempestuous and at the same time oddly tentative. This may sound contradictory. It was contradictory. I cannot account for it, I can only say that such was the case.
Sometime later, after we had settled into our usual sleeping positions—Emerson flat on his back with his arms folded across his breast like a mummified Egyptian pharaoh, I on my side with my head against his shoulder—I heard him sigh.
“Peabody.”
“Yes, my dear Emerson?”
“There is, if I am not mistaken,